Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Then Robert, going on from one lie to another, answered,

  “I suppose the dog must have done it.” —

  “Did you see him do it?” says his mother.

  “Yes,” said this wicked boy.

  “Trusty, Trusty,” said his mother, turning round; and Trusty, who was lying before the fire, drying his legs, which were wet with the milk, jumped up, and came to her. Then she said, “Fie! fie! Trusty!” and she pointed to the milk.—”Get me a switch out of the garden, Robert; Trusty must be beat for this.”

  Robert ran for the switch, and in the garden he met his brother: he stopped him, and told him, in a great hurry, all that he had said to his mother; and he begged of him not to tell the truth, but to say the same as he had done.

  “No, I will not tell a lie,” said Frank.—”What! and is Trusty to be beat! — He did not throw down the milk, and he shan’t be beat for it — Let me go to my mother.”

  They both ran toward the house — Robert got first home, and he locked the house-door, that Frank might not come in. He gave the switch to his mother.

  Poor Trusty! he looked up as the switch was lifted over his head; but he could not speak, to tell the truth. Just as the blow was falling upon him, Frank’s voice was heard at the window.

  “Stop, stop! dear mother, stop!” cried he, as loud as ever he could call; “Trusty did not do it — let me in — I and Robert did it — but do not beat Robert.”

  “Let us in, let us in,” cried another voice, which Robert knew to be his father’s; “I am just come from work, and here’s the door locked.”

  Robert turned as pale as ashes when he heard his father’s voice; for his father always whipped him when he told a lie.

  His mother went to the door, and unlocked it.

  “What’s all this?” cried his father, as he came in; so his mother told him all that had happened; — how the milk had been thrown down; how she had asked Robert whether he had done it; and he said that he had not, nor that Frank had not done it, but that Trusty, the dog, had done it; how she was just going to beat Trusty, when Frank came to the window and told the truth.

  “Where is the switch with which you were going to beat Trusty?” said the father.

  Then Robert, who saw, by his father’s look, that he was going to beat him, fell upon his knees, and cried for mercy, saying, “Forgive me this time, and I will never tell a lie again.”

  But his father caught hold of him by the arm—”I will whip you now,” said he, “and then, I hope, you will not.” So Robert was whipped, till he cried so loud with the pain, that the whole neighbourhood could hear him.

  “There,” said his father, when he had done, “now go to supper; you are to have no milk to-night, and you have been whipped. See how liars are served!” Then, turning to Frank, “Come here, and shake hands with me, Frank; you will have no milk for supper; but that does not signify; you have told the truth, and have not been whipped, and every body is pleased with you. And now I’ll tell you what I will do for you — I will give you the little dog Trusty, to be your own dog. You shall feed him, and take care of him, and he shall be your dog; you have saved him a beating; and, I’ll answer for it, you’ll be a good master to him. Trusty, Trusty, come here.”

  Trusty came; then Frank’s father took off Trusty’s collar—”To-morrow I’ll go to the brazier’s,” added he, “and get a new collar made for your dog: from this day forward he shall always be called after you, Frank! —— And, wife, whenever any of the neighbours’ children ask you why the dog Trusty is to be called Frank, tell them this story of our two boys: let them know the difference between a liar and a boy of truth.”

  THE ORANGE MAN.

  OR, THE HONEST BOY AND THE THIEF.

  Charles was the name of the honest boy; and Ned was the name of the thief.

  Charles never touched what was not his own: this is being an honest boy.

  Ned often took what was not his own: this is being a thief.

  Charles’s father and mother, when he was a very little boy, had taught him to be honest, by always punishing him when he meddled with what was not his own: but when Ned took what was not his own, his father and mother did not punish him; so he grew up to be a thief.

  Early one summer’s morning, as Charles was going along the road to school, he met a man leading a horse, which was laden with panniers.

  The man stopped at the door of a public-house which was by the road side; and he said to the landlord, who came to the door, “I won’t have my horse unloaded; I shall only stop with you whilst I eat my breakfast. — Give my horse to some one to hold here on the road, and let the horse have a little hay to eat.”

  The landlord called; but there was no one in the way; so he beckoned to Charles, who was going by, and begged him to hold the horse.

  “Oh,” said the man, “but can you engage him to be an honest boy? for these are oranges in my baskets; and it is not every little boy one can leave with oranges.”

  “Yes,” said the landlord, “I have known Charles from the cradle upwards, and I never caught him in a lie or a theft; all the parish knows him to be an honest boy; I’ll engage your oranges will be as safe with him as if you were by yourself.”

  “Can you so?” said the orange man; “then I’ll engage, my lad, to give you the finest orange in my basket, when I come from breakfast, if you’ll watch the rest whilst I am away.” —

  “Yes,” said Charles, “I will take care of your oranges.”

  So the man put the bridle into his hand, and he went into the house to eat his breakfast.

  Charles had watched the horse and the oranges about five minutes, when he saw one of his school-fellows coming towards him. As he came nearer, Charles saw that it was Ned.

  Ned stopped as he passed, and said, “Good-morrow to you, Charles; what are you doing there? whose horse is that? and what have you got in the baskets?”

  “There are oranges in the baskets,” said Charles; “and a man, who has just gone into the inn, here, to eat his breakfast, bid me take care of them, and so I did; because he said he would give me an orange when he came back again.”

  “An orange!” cried Ned; “are you to have a whole orange? — I wish I was to have one! However, let me look how large they are.” Saying this, Ned went towards the pannier, and lifted up the cloth that covered it. “La! what fine oranges!” he exclaimed, the moment he saw them: “Let me touch them, to feel if they are ripe.”

  “No,” said Charles, “you had better not; what signifies it to you whether they are ripe, you know, since you are not to eat them. You should not meddle with them; they are not yours — You must not touch them.”

  “Not touch them! surely,” said Ned, “there’s no harm in touching them. You don’t think I mean to steal them, I suppose.” So Ned put his hand into the orange-man’s basket, and he took up an orange, and he felt it; and when he had felt it, he smelled it. “It smells very sweet,” said he, “and it feels very ripe; I long to taste it; I will only just suck one drop of juice at the top.” Saying these words, he put the orange to his mouth.

  Little boys, who wish to be honest, beware of temptation; do not depend too much upon yourselves; and remember, that it is easier to resolve to do right at first, than at last. People are led on, by little and little, to do wrong.

  The sight of the oranges tempted Ned to touch them; the touch tempted him to smell them; and the smell tempted him to taste them.

  “What are you about, Ned?” cried Charles, taking hold of his arm. “You said, you only wanted to smell the orange; do, put it down, for shame!”

  “Don’t say for shame to me,” cried Ned, in a surly tone; “the oranges are not yours, Charles!”

  “No, they are not mine; but I promised to take care of them, and so I will: — so put down that orange!”

  “Oh, if it comes to that, I won’t,” said Ned, “and let us see who can make me, if I don’t choose it; — I’m stronger than you.”

  “I am not afraid of you for all th
at,” replied Charles, “for I am in the right.” Then he snatched the orange out of Ned’s hand, and he pushed him with all his force from the basket.

  Ned, immediately returning, hit him a violent blow, which almost stunned him.

  Still, however, this good boy, without minding the pain, persevered in defending what was left in his care; he still held the bridle with one hand, and covered the basket with his other arm, as well as he could.

  Ned struggled in vain, to get his hands into the pannier again; he could not; and, finding that he could not win by strength, he had recourse to cunning. So he pretended to be out of breath and to desist; but he meant, as soon as Charles looked away, to creep softly round to the basket, on the other side.

  Cunning people, though they think themselves very wise, are almost always very silly.

  Ned, intent upon one thing, the getting round to steal the oranges, forgot that if he went too close to the horse’s heels, he should startle him. The horse indeed, disturbed by the bustle near him, had already left off eating his hay, and began to put down his ears; but when he felt something touch his hind legs, he gave a sudden kick, and Ned fell backwards, just as he had seized the orange.

  Ned screamed with the pain; and at the scream all the people came out of the public house to see what was the matter; and amongst them came the orange-man.

  Ned was now so much ashamed, that he almost forgot the pain, and wished to run away; but he was so much hurt, that he was obliged to sit down again.

  The truth of the matter was soon told by Charles, and as soon believed by all the people present who knew him: for he had the character of being an honest boy; and Ned was known to be a thief and a liar.

  So nobody pitied Ned for the pain he felt. “He deserves it,” says one. “Why did he meddle with what was not his own?”—”Pugh! he is not much hurt, I’ll answer for it,” said another. “And if he was, it’s a lucky kick for him, if it keeps him from the gallows,” says a third. Charles was the only person who said nothing; he helped Ned away to a bank: for brave boys are always good-natured.

  “Oh, come here,” said the orange-man, calling him; “come here, my honest lad! what! you got that black eye in keeping my oranges, did you? — that’s a stout little fellow,” said he, taking him by the hand, and leading him into the midst of the people.

  Men, women, and children, had gathered around, and all the children fixed their eyes upon Charles, and wished to be in his place.

  In the mean time, the orange-man took Charles’s hat off his head, and filled it with fine China oranges. “There, my little friend,” said he, “take them, and God bless you with them! If I could but afford it, you should have all that is in my basket.”

  Then the people, and especially the children, shouted for joy; but as soon as there was silence, Charles said to the orange-man, “Thank’e, master, with all my heart; but I can’t take your oranges, only that one I earned; take the rest back again: as for a black eye, that’s nothing! but I won’t be paid for it; no more than for doing what’s honest. So I can’t take your oranges, master; but I thank you as much as if I had them.” Saying these words, Charles offered to pour the oranges back into the basket; but the man would not let him.

  “Then,” said Charles, “if they are honestly mine, I may give them away;” so he emptied the hat amongst the children, his companions. “Divide them amongst you,” said he; and without waiting for their thanks, he pressed through the crowd, and ran towards home. The children all followed him, clapping their hands, and thanking him.

  The little thief came limping after. Nobody praised him, nobody thanked him; he had no oranges to eat, nor had he any to give away. People must be honest, before they can be generous. Ned sighed as he went towards home; “And all this,” said he to himself, “was for one orange; it was not worth while.”

  No: it is never worth while to do wrong.

  Little boys who read this story, consider which would you rather have been, the honest boy, or the thief.

  THE CHERRY ORCHARD.

  Marianne was a little girl of about eight years old; she was remarkably good-tempered; she could bear to be disappointed, or to be contradicted, or to be blamed, without looking or feeling peevish, or sullen, or angry. — Her parents, and her school-mistress and companions, all loved her, because she was obedient and obliging.

  Marianne had a cousin, a year younger than herself, named Owen, who was an ill-tempered boy; almost every day he was crying, or pouting, or in a passion, about some trifle or other; he was neither obedient nor obliging. — His playfellows could not love him; for he was continually quarrelling with them; he would never, either when he was at play or at work, do what they wished; but he always tried to force them to yield to his will and his humour.

  One fine summer’s evening, Marianne and Owen were setting out, with several of their little companions, to school. It was a walk of about a mile from the town in which their fathers and mothers lived to the school-house, if they went by the high-road; but there was another way, through a lane, which was a quarter of a mile shorter.

  Marianne, and most of the children, liked to go by the lane, because they could gather the pretty flowers which grew on the banks, and in the hedges; but Owen preferred going by the high-road, because he liked to see the carts and carriages, and horsemen, which usually were seen upon this road.

  Just when they were setting out, Owen called to Marianne, who was turning into the lane.

  “Marianne,” said he, “you must not go by the lane to-day; you must go by the road.”

  “Why must not I go by the lane to-day?” said Marianne; “you know, yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, we all went by the high-road, only to please you; and now let us go by the lane, because we want to gather some honey-suckles and dog-roses, to fill our dame’s flower-pots.”

  “I don’t care for that; I don’t want to fill our dame’s flower-pots; I don’t want to gather honey-suckles and dog-roses; I want to see the coaches and chaises on the road; and you must go my way, Marianne.”

  “Must! Oh, you should not say must,” replied Marianne, in a gentle tone.

  “No, indeed!” cried one of her companions, “you should not; nor should you look so cross: that is not the way to make us do what you like.”

  “And, besides,” said another, “what right has he always to make us do as he pleases? — He never will do any thing that we wish.”

  Owen grew quite angry when he heard this; and he was just going to make some sharp answer, when Marianne, who was good-natured, and always endeavoured to prevent quarrels, said, “Let us do what he asks, this once; and I dare say he will do what we please the next time — We will go by the high-road to school, and we can come back by the lane, in the cool of the evening.”

  To please Marianne, whom they all loved, they agreed to this proposal. They went by the high-road; but Owen was not satisfied, because he saw that his companions did not comply for his sake; and as he walked on, he began to kick up the dust with his feet, saying, “I’m sure it is much pleasanter here than in the lane; I wish we were to come back this way — I’m sure it is much pleasanter here than in the lane: is not it, Marianne?”

  Marianne could not say that she thought so.

  Owen kicked up the dust more and more.

  “Do not make such a dust, dear Owen,” said she; “look how you have covered my shoes and my clean stockings with dust.”

  “Then, say, it is pleasanter here than in the lane. I shall go on, making this dust, till you say that.”

  “I cannot say that, because I do not think so, Owen.”

  “I’ll make you think so, and say so too.”

  “You are not taking the right way to make me think so: you know that I cannot think this dust agreeable.”

  Owen persisted; and he raised continually a fresh cloud of dust, in spite of all that Marianne or his companions could say to him. — They left him, and went to the opposite side of the road; but wherever they went, he pursued —
At length they came to a turnpike-gate, on one side of which there was a turn-stile; Marianne and the rest of the children passed, one by one, through the turn-stile, whilst Owen was emptying his shoes of dust. When this was done, he looked up, and saw all his companions on the other side of the gate, holding the turn-stile, to prevent him from coming through.

  “Let me through, let me through,” cried he, “I must and will come through.”

  “No, no, Owen,” said they, “must will not do now; we have you safe; here are ten of us; and we will not let you come through till you have promised that you will not make any more dust.”

  Owen, without making any answer, began to kick, and push, and pull, and struggle, with all his might; but in vain he struggled, pulled, pushed and kicked; he found that ten people are stronger than one. — When he felt that he could not conquer them by force, he began to cry; and he roared as loud as he possibly could.

  No one but the turnpike-man was within hearing; and he stood laughing at Owen.

  Owen tried to climb the gate; but he could not get over it, because there were iron spikes at the top.

  “Only promise that you will not kick up the dust, and they will let you through,” said Marianne.

  Owen made no answer, but continued to struggle till his whole face was scarlet, and till both his wrists ached: he could not move the turn-stile an inch.

  “Well,” said he, stopping short, “now you are all of you joined together; you are stronger than I; but I am as cunning as you.”

  He left the stile, and began to walk homewards.

  “Where are you going? You will be too late at school, if you turn back and go by the lane,” said Marianne.

  “I know that, very well; but that will be your fault, and not mine — I shall tell our dame, that you all of you held the turn-stile against me, and would not let me through.”

  “And we shall tell our dame why we held the turn-stile against you,” replied one of the children; “and then it will be plain that it was your fault.”